#Crack Gauge Monitoring

[kagaoanengineering]

Crack Gauge Monitoring for Architectural Integrity

Crack gauge monitoring play a crucial role in enhancing structural safety. Implementing crack gauge monitoring helps ensure timely interventions, allowing for necessary repairs and reinforcing strategies that preserve the aesthetic and functional aspects of buildings. To discover more, visit us!

[rlyehtaxidermist]

December 2-3, 1984

It's been forty years since a Union Carbide chemical plant exposed five hundred thousand people to methyl isocyanate in Bhopal, India. Thousands were killed in the initial event, thousands more died from complications months or years later, and at least a hundred thousand were permanently injured.

The cause of the incident was the introduction of water to a methyl isocyanate storage tank. This caused a runaway reaction, overpressurising the tank from 14 to 280 kPa over the course of two hours, at which point the tank cracked - but even with atmospheric escape of the gas, pressure continued to increase to nearly 400 kPa - at which point the gauge could no longer give an accurate reading.

After roughly 30 tonnes of gas escaped, employees triggered the plant's alarm system - which was originally designed to alert both workers in the plant and the people in the surrounding city. Company policy mandated that they not alarm the populace about "inconsequential" leakages, so the two alarms had been decoupled by the time of the release. For nearly an hour and a half, the plant's management continued to tell authorities that everything was fine and they had no idea what had happened. Hospital staff had to guess what gas was causing the symptoms. No shelter in place order was given; the public siren remained silent for an hour and a half.

Union Carbide had identified 61 hazards at the Bhopal plant in a 1982 audit, but never followed up on the inspection. Mere months before the incident, UCC discussed the possibility of a methyl isocyanate reaction similar to what occurred in Bhopal at one of their West Virginia plants - however, the report and its predictions were never forwarded to the Bhopal plant, despite the similar design and process.

The Union Carbide Corporation asserts that the incident was caused by sabotage performed by a disgruntled worker. They claim that workers conspired with the Indian government to hide evidence of sabotage in order to blame the company, claiming that the safety systems were sufficient to prevent the incident without human intervention.

On the night of the incident, the tank's monitoring equipment had been malfunctioning for years, reduced to a single manually operated backup. Management had shut off refrigeration of the tank, keeping it at more than 15 degrees Celsius above the recommended temperature. The emergency flare and gas scrubbers had been out of order for months - and even if they had been active, they had insufficient capacity. Deluge guns - a type of pressurised water cannon intended to dissolve escaping gas - lacked enough pressure to even reach the gas cloud.

No motive for the alleged sabotage was suggested.

Warren Anderson, CEO of Union Carbide, refused to answer homicide charges by the Indian government, with the US government denying repeated requests for extradition. He died in 2014, months before the thirtieth anniversary of the disaster in Bhopal.

Union Carbide have divested their stake in their Indian subsidiary UCIL, and refuse to fund any efforts to clean up the abandoned site, insisting that the fault lied with UCIL management and the alleged saboteur. The company paid $470 million dollars to the Indian government - which worked out to a cost of 43 cents per share of the company. Union Carbide's annual earnings were $4.88 per share after the Bhopal settlement.

The 2012 Global Intelligence Files leak revealed that Union Carbide's current owner, Dow Chemical, had employed the surveillance firm Stratfor to monitor activists seeking compensation for the Bhopal disaster.

Dow responded to the email leak that they were "required to take appropriate action to protect their people and safeguard their facilities" - an attitude that seems to have been very lacking in 1984.

[band--psycho]

Poly!141 x Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 13)

Bit of a longer chapter this one! I hope you all enjoy this!💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Catch up on the previous part here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12

Warnings: Feelings of worry, car chase, car crash, mention of blood, paramedics, ambulances. being unconscious, cuts, bruises, concussion, dislocated shoulder, medical inaccuracies

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist /Taskforce 141 Masterlist /Join My Taglist

The paramedic was right, you were lucky. 

Your right shoulder was dislocated; you also had a cracked rib and a rather large cut on the top of your forehead; but other than that,  the injuries you’d sustained during the crash, were simply cuts and bruises. 

The doctors said they’d know more once you regained consciousness; but for right now, their outlook for you was good. 

Unlike Y/f/n... 

The four men didn’t know of their condition; seeing as  they weren’t family so they weren’t allowed to know anything… all they knew was that they were rushed into surgery upon arrival at the hospital. 

That was enough for them to gauge the severity of Y/f/ns injuries. 

The room you were in was near enough completely silent, except for the sound of the heart monitor machine; which thankfully kept beeping at a steady rate. 

Much to the relief of the men in the room. 

Simon was standing in the corner of the room closest to you; leaning against the wall, his jaw was tight as he stared straight ahead, much like he had done at home moments after you left.

He was unable to stop his mind from playing out scenarios that ended much worse than the one that happened. 

Occasionally he’d glance over at you; reminding himself that you were alright for the most part….that you were safe now. 

But every time he looked at you; he felt anger burning through his veins; Graves, Shepherd and whoever was driving the car was going to pay for this; he’d make sure of it. 

Of course he wouldn’t be alone. 

He knew that.

John, Johnny and Kyle would all help in hurting the fuckers that did this to you. 

Johnny was already pacing back and forth along the far wall; his agitation rolling off of him in waves; he'd occasionally stop and look at you for prolonged periods of time, as if you’d wake up if he looked at you long enough.  

But you didn’t. 

And that’s when the Scotsman would start pacing again. 

Kyle was by your side; sitting in the chair closest to your hospital bed; his eyes never leaving you, unless it was to blink. 

His hand was hovering over yours; as though you were glass that was on the verge of shattering. 

He was terrified to touch you; but he couldn’t pull his hand away, so it just stayed there, inches above yours.

John had been in and out of the room; popping his head in to see if there’d been any changes and to make sure his partners were holding up okay, before disappearing again to make calls. 

~~~~~

Currently John was on the phone to Kate; one of the very few people he still trusted, hoping that there was some way she could find out any information about the car; or some other information that would prove Graves or Shepherds involvement. 

“It was a black SUV, windows tinted, no plates, left as soon as they veered Y/f/ns car off the road,” Kate explained, making a small frown tug on Johns lips.

He knew he needed proof before he did everything.

Kate understood his silence; she knew what he needed and she’d try her best to aid him in finding the proof that was needed, “I’ll track it through traffic cameras and see what I can find out,”

It was a long shot. 

They both knew that. 

But it was worth a shot.

Even if she could identify the driver, that would be something. 

Or if she could work out where the car was left, John and the others could go and investigate the area seeing as the car would probably be burnt or destroyed by now. 

“Thanks Kate,” John said softly; he knew that she didn’t have to do this and appreciated the fact that she was taking the time to help them.

He thought she’d end the call there; and knew by the prolonged silence that there was something else she wanted to say. 

“What is it?”

“You know if Graves or Shepherd are involved in this, Y/n won’t be safe, Y/f/n might not be either,”

A short sigh fell from John's lips as he ran a hand down his face. 

Of course he knew this. 

All he’d been able to think about since they got to the hospital was how he was going to keep you and Y/f/n safe; knowing that if Graves or Shepherd were involved they’d use Y/f/n to get to you. 

That’s why he’d been making so many phone calls; trying to sort out a safe house, somewhere safe where they could all go once they could leave the hospital.

“We’ll keep them both safe,” John stated; his voice sounding calm and collected, like it was going to be the easiest thing in the world. 

His answer made a sigh fall from Kate’s lips this time, “What if they don’t want you keeping them safe?”

Despite hating her words; John understood Kate’s concern. 

There was every possibility that you and Y/f/n would want to get as far away from all of them as possible; he couldn’t blame either of you for that.

But he just had to make you both understand that as long as Graves and Shepherd were out there that there’d be a risk to both their lives.

He wasn't going to leave you.

He thought last time that he was doing the right thing by putting distance between him and you. 

He was wrong and there was no way he was going to let that mistake happen again.

He was going to keep you safe this time; as well Y/f/n.

“Have you thought about what happens if Y/f/n doesn’t make it?”

Kate’s question hung heavy in the air. 

That was a worst case scenario he didn’t want to think of. 

He couldn’t bear to. 

Because the worst case scenario meant that Y/f/n didn’t leave this hospital….that he’d have to deliver the news to you that your best friend had died. 

You’d already lost so much; he knew it would break you if you lost Y/f/n too. 

“They’re strong,” John said simply; knowing that there was every possibility of the worst case scenario happening; but he had to remain hopeful. 

“John,” Kate began, “If Y/f/n dies, Y/n could blame you guys….”

“I know,” John replied back, guilt lacing his voice as he hung up the phone.

He wouldn’t blame you if you did. 

They may not have driven the car that caused the crash, but they were still to blame. 

He should’ve kept you at the house; should’ve let Y/f/n inside and you all could have talked…could’ve come up with a plan. 

But he didn't know that there was going to be a car chasing you and Y/f/n.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing, and if he had a time machine he’d go back and change it so that neither you or Y/f/n got hurt, but he couldn’t. 

All he could do now was be there for you and Y/f/n if they survived the surgery and keep you both safe; regardless of if either of you wanted the protection he was offering or not. 

And he was almost certain that Simon, Johnny and Kyle would agree with him.

This time when he walked back into your room at the hospital; he had no intention of leaving. 

“Any news?” Johnny asked, halting in his steps as soon as he noticed that John wasn’t just briefly popping in to check on them all. 

“Not really,” John answered, shaking his head slightly, “it was a black SUV, with tinted windows and no plates,”

He watched as Johnny's lips tugged downwards into a frown and he hated it. 

Hated that he couldn’t give anybody the answers they needed. 

“Kate’s gonna call me when she’s got more news,” John continued softly, looking at Johnny with a small reassuring smile on his own lips, hoping that his words would be enough to raise his spirits a little. 

Johnny didn’t say anything; simply nodded at John's words, but he didn’t go back to pacing this time, instead he just stared at you. 

John moved closer to the hospital bed you were on, until he was standing behind Kyle, his eyes fixed on you. 

Simon’s eyes darted from each of the men in the room before landing on you. 

A moment of silence fell across the room; each of them reflecting on how easily they could’ve lost you.

Then a small sound broke the tension that had grown in the room. 

It wasn’t much, a slight change in your breathing followed by a faint twitch in your fingers; but it was enough. 

Enough to snap all of the men out of their thoughts. 

Kyle's hand was on yours in an instant, his other hand moving to your face, his thumb delicately brushing your forehead, ensuring that he avoided touching the nasty head wound you’d obtained from the crash.

“Hey, hey….it's alright, you’re alright,” he soothed, watching as your eyes fluttered open, showing slits of your y/e/c eyes behind their slightly swollen lids.

He could already see the sudden pain turning to confusion which quickly morphed into recognition as your eyes fully opened, glancing around at everyone around you. 

“Wh…what..happ…” your words trailed off into a wince, as you tried to move, unable to do so.

“Easy, sweetheart,” John said with a calmness in his voice, moving slightly so that he was standing next to Kyle and not behind him, “you’re safe and we’re all here.”

Kyle continued holding your hand, rubbing small circles onto the back of your hand just like he used to do when you were stressed.

“What…happened? You repeated, your eyes settling on Kyle. 

“You were in a crash,”

It was like Kyle’s words triggered an instant replay of what had happened. 

You were with Y/f/n in their car. 

They were driving to your house..

Someone started following you in a black SUV, it kept crashing into the back of the car…

You’d called Simon, you were heading back to their house…until Y/f/n lost control of the car…

“Y/f/n,” you breathed out, the sheer panic for them evident in your voice as you tried to get up from the bed.

You were trying desperately to ignore the pain you felt shooting through your right shoulder, as well as your chest, all whilst trying to ignore the exhaustion that was washing over your body. 

You remembered looking at Y/f/n just before the crash…remembered seeing the fear in their eyes and it made your heart ache.

“You need to rest,” John cooed softly, sitting down on the side of the bed. 

A small groan fell from your lips as you attempted to move again; caring little for how much pain you were in, “I need to know where Y/f/n is,”

“They’re in surgery, Bon,” Johnny explained, walking over to the other side of the bed and sitting down on it, mirroring John; stopping you from getting out of the bed.

“Surgery…” your voice was barely above a whisper as you processed what Johnny said; your mind continuing to replay the moments just before the crash, “we were being followed,”

“We know,” Simon stated, turning to look at you, the phone call replaying in his mind. 

“Kate’s looking into it,” John added, hoping that his answer would help to console you. 

And they did. 

Briefly. 

Until you remembered what you’d been discussing with the very men in this room. 

The information that you’d learnt.

"Shepherd? Phillip….”

“We know they had something to do with it, we just can’t prove it yet…” John answered truthfully.

You didn’t want to believe that your Fiance had planned for this, or worse, to happen; but given what you’d found out about him…you weren’t really sure who he actually was or what he was capable of.

But was he really capable of killing you and Y/f/n?

Would there not have been other ways to do it, instead of in the middle of the day where anyone could drive by and help, and why didn't he make sure you were both dead...? 

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Johnny continued, seeing how the doubt was growing in your eyes from Johns answer. 

“We’ll find everyone involved in this,” Kyle declared softly to you, raising your hand gently to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“And we’ll make them regret it,” Johnny assured you, anger burning bright behind his blue eyes. 

You knew by the look in the Scotsman’s eyes that his words were not a statement, they were a promise. 

Simon remained silent. 

He simply nodded his head at Johnny's words as he made his way to the Scotsman side.

His silence a promise to you that they were going to find whoever caused this crash.

“We’re not gonna let anything else happen to you, sweetheart,” John knew you were probably going to bite his head off for using the nickname he used to use when you were together for a second time, but he didn’t care. 

Maybe it was the probable concussion you’d gotten from the crash; maybe it was just because of everything that had happened today…but you actually found comfort in hearing some of the nicknames you used to be called by them. 

It made you feel safe.

They made you feel safe, despite everything that had happened.

That feeling of safety was a feeling that was short lived though; because then you heard the familiar voice of Phillip from behind the door, at first you thought you were wrong. 

You hoped you were wrong.

But when the door opened; he walked through it, his eyes meeting yours, ignoring the four other men in the room.

The concussion definitely must have been doing something to your brain, because you could’ve sworn you saw genuine worry in Phillip’s eyes when they met yours. 

Tagging:

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[ramblings-in-imagination]

No Answer

It had been one of those days: long, draining, and heavy. Eddie’s shift at Station 118 had been busy but manageable, leaving him counting down the minutes to get home to you.

You’d felt off all day: a tickle in your throat, a lightheaded feeling that refused to fade, and an ache in your bones that whispered of something more than just exhaustion. But you waved it off. Just a cold, you told yourself. No need to worry Eddie.

So you’d curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, determined to rest and not make a fuss. You didn’t want to be the reason he worried.

But sometimes, silence speaks volumes.

Eddie’s shift ended early thanks to a last-minute change, and he decided to surprise you with takeout and a smile. When he pushed open the front door, the hush that met him felt wrong.

“Babe?” he called, balancing the bags of food in one hand. “Hey, I’m home.”

No answer.

His brow furrowed. He set the bags down, moving quietly through the house. He found you slumped on the couch, pale and drenched in sweat, your eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He rushed to your side, heart hammering in his chest.

“Hey, hey—babe, look at me,” he urged, his voice trembling. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, feeling the intense heat radiating from your skin. “Damn it, you’re burning up.”

Damn it. You’re on fire.”

Your breathing was shallow and labored. Eddie’s paramedic training kicked in. He checked your carotid pulse: thready and rapid, and your capillary refill was delayed.

“Hey, stay with me, okay?” He gave your cheek a gentle pat.

Your eyes opened, but they were confused and distant. “Who… who are you?” you rasped, voice trembling.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. “It’s me—Eddie,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m your boyfriend. I’m right here, okay?”

Your eyelids fluttered, then closed as your head lolled to the side.

“Shit,” he cursed, dialing 9-1-1 with trembling hands. “This is Eddie Diaz. My girlfriend’s unresponsive, febrile—temp around 104. She’s tachypneic—about 32 breaths per minute, thready pulse, hypotensive—BP probably 90 over 60. Possible sepsis or meningitis. We need an ambulance at—” He rattled off the address.

The dispatcher’s voice was calm. “Ambulance en route. Stay on the line. Is she responsive to pain?”

“She’s unconscious now,” Eddie replied, his voice cracking. “I’m placing her in the recovery position in case she vomits.”

His hands trembled as he dialed another number, his last line of defense.

“Buck….” His voice broke. “It’s Y/N. She’s really sick. I need you here.”

“Say no more,” Buck’s voice snapped, calm but urgent. “I’m on my way.”

Eddie hung up, his mind racing. He glanced at the clock—Chris was at a sleepover tonight, thank God. He didn’t have to see this.

Within minutes, the wail of sirens echoed down the road. The paramedics from Station 118: Hen, Chim, and Bobby—burst through the door. Buck skidded in right behind them, eyes wide with panic.

“Eddie…. what the hell happened?” Buck demanded, his voice trembling.

“She was fine this morning,” Eddie said, voice ragged. “Now she’s burning up and….. she didn’t even know me, man.”

Hen knelt at your side, her gloved hands working fast. “Temp’s 104.2—she’s tachycardic at 140, BP’s low—90 over 60. Respiratory rate’s 32, shallow. She’s pale and unresponsive.”

Chimney was already setting up an IV. “I’m pushing 500ml bolus of normal saline, she’s hypotensive. Let’s get her on a non-rebreather at 15 liters per minute.”

Buck’s eyes filled with tears as he brushed sweaty hair from your forehead. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

Eddie couldn’t tear his eyes from your face as Chimney prepped the monitor. “She’s got delayed capillary refill, Hen: probable septic shock,” Chimney muttered.

“On it,” Hen said, her tone all business. “Let’s get another IV—wide bore 18 gauge—and consider vasopressors if her MAP drops below 65.”

Bobby gave Eddie a steady look. “We’ve got her, Eddie. Let’s move.”

Eddie climbed into the ambulance beside you, gripping your hand like a lifeline. “Hang on, honey,” he whispered. “You’re my world. Don’t you leave me, okay?”

As they raced toward the hospital, Hen called in the report: “Dispatch, this is RA118. We’ve got a 27-year-old female, febrile to 104.2, altered mental status, tachycardia at 140, BP 90/60, tachypnea at 32. Suspected sepsis. Starting fluids and oxygen, requesting immediate trauma team on arrival.”

You shuddered, head lolling, breathing ragged. Eddie held your hand tight. “Stay with me,” he whispered, voice fierce. “Please…. just stay with me.”

And even though you couldn’t answer, he knew he’d fight for you with every breath he had. Because that’s who Eddie Diaz was, a protector.

And as the ambulance screamed toward the hospital, Buck’s voice on the radio promised: “I’m right behind you, Eddie. We’re in this together.”

[veryace-ficrecs]

The Pitt Fic Recs Part 1

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Find part 2 here!

This Is The Day In Chaos by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

As the Pitt descends into its usual chaos, Dr Robby brings coffee and encouragement to his beleaguered team. Samira Mohan and Dennis Whittaker bond, while Mel King finally makes a joke -- intentionally!

The Dead Don’t Answer by NameStartsWithN - Rated G

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch learned a long time ago that death isn’t quiet—it’s a symphony of chaos, a brutal soundtrack of screaming monitors, cracking ribs, and the rush of hands fighting the inevitable. At Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, there are always calls for help. Because the dead don’t answer. But the living don’t have a choice.

The Aftermath by AGirlHasNoName20 - Rated T

Two weeks after Pittfest, Robby is presented with a choice. Or: The one in which Robby starts therapy. Don't read unless you've watched the entire season 1.

Rules of Law by jumpfall - Rated G

The night Robby signed his attending contract, he was introduced to the Laws According to Adamson. He likes to hope that if he leaves his trainees with nothing else, it'll be the Addendums According to Robby. - Alternatively, is it really a fandom until there's a five things fic?

To Be A Doctor by mossterious -Rated G

Four student doctors. Four paths to get there. Four points of view. One hospital. — Aka I need to get used to writing different character povs SO HAVE SOME TINY CHARACTER STUDIES I GUESS?!

people come and go on the breeze by sweetmuses - Rated M

Redemption is a hard, long journey. She knows this probably better than most people. You have to keep yourself afloat amongst the madness, being acutely aware of tipping back into the ether. It’s easier to live within the boundless ocean of guilt than to take accountability - because to take accountability means that you’re willing to work for it, and there’s no way of knowing when you’ll slip up and fall.

In Memoriam by fundotperiod - Rated G

Or: A reflection on the in-betweens of life, ghosts, and the human condition, through the eyes of Cassie McKay.

How Robby has grieved and remembered his mentor.

Reflection by ZHH123 - Rated G

She thinks back on all the moments she almost couldn’t bear. The moments that prompted her to question if she belonged in the pitt. Then she thinks of her triumphs.

Last Call by jumpfall - Rated T

“Sorry if I woke you,” Robby says. Jack shrugs. “Middle of the day in my time zone.” He waits a beat, and then asks, “You want to talk?” “No.” “You want a drink?” “You'd allow that?” “No,” Jack says. “Just lets me gauge how concerned I should be.” – 1x15 episode tag.

The Pitt Crew! by megas217 - Rated G

Welcome to the Pitt Crew a story about the doctors and nurses who work in the Pitt.

Sursum Corda by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing) - Rated M

A few hours after Pittfest, Langdon returns to the ED.

The Way, Way Back by jumpfall - Rated T

Robby, post 1x13.

And I Said Nothing by elpopooley66 - Rated T

Trinity Santos is not okay. She’s never really been okay. But she’s held herself together this long — on caffeine, adrenaline, and silence sharp enough to cut. The Pitt sees it. Langdon sees it. And for once, maybe she lets herself be seen. They don’t fix her. They just don’t leave. Sometimes, that’s enough. Featuring: unresolved trauma, a lobster named Greb, a borrowed hoodie, and the terrifying prospect of letting someone care. Or: the one where she stops pretending she’s fine — and someone finally calls her bluff.

what a weight to live under by shirelings - Rated T

Mel’s convinced she’s made it to the door without anyone noticing her before a voice stops her dead in her tracks. “Dr. King.” It’s said in that sort of way that’s not really a question even if someone else would frame it like that, and Mel lets her shoulders rise up a little towards her ears as she slowly turns. Oh, boy. - Mel does, in fact, talk to Abbot at the end of the day.

Change of Watch by jumpfall - Rated T

When Robby's phone vibrated twenty minutes ago, he'd been dealing with a critical GSW to the adbomen and unable to answer. Now there's a voicemail from Jake.

Even Grouches Need to Go to the Hospital by lolathatch - Rated T

Trinity Santos finds a video of Doctor Robby from his younger days and makes it everyone's problem.

singing in unison by dotsayers - Rated M

Leah's sick the night before Pittfest. Robby gets his ticket back.

just a drop of water in an endless sea by evening_spirit - Rated G

Aftershocks by jumpfall - Rated T

Robby’s going to be fine, a rational part of Frank’s mind says. You’re the last person Robby needs right now, says another part, the one that hates himself. But Frank saw the look in Robby’s eyes and he knows that Robby is not fine. Not this time. And no one else will help.

But should it be him?

Maybe he should go get Dana? Abbot? Damn, if at least Collins was here. But Collins is not here, Dana doesn’t have anything more to give and Abbot is a pragmatic, a doer, not someone who would comfort another. Then again, neither is Frank.

Or--a 1x13 coda where Frank and Robby talk, but it doesn't really solve anything.

Ways they are (and aren't) coping with the mass casualty incident.

living weighs heavier by Antumbra - Rated T

Maybe none of them were ever meant to be alright, not once they’d chosen to devote themselves to this career that could only tear them down and break them apart. Or: an alternate take where Jack finds Robby after his breakdown.

[jasonsiceberglounge]

CODE RED pt1.

the smell of sterilization clung to jason's body like a hug, but not the comforting kind, the suffocating all-consuming disturbing kind. he lived and breathed trauma, not only his own but the emergency room sort.

a stethoscope hung loosely around his neck, the all familiar rhythmic beat of the metal to chest as he walked a little quicker than normal, his pager crackling as he heard the rather urgent calls for a code red. funny thing is though, code red wasn't quite an actual code, it meant bring the big boy down to bay 3 to wrangle this all too strong detoxing gotham regular into straps, which brought jason a semblance of stress relief. he huffed, wondering how long this one would take him, the last being roughly 2 minutes in hospital time which was hours to the staff.

he neared a corner, the soft beating of monitors carrying him to the faster paced ones like a drum, 'war drums are more like it.' he rolled his eyes hearing the shouting increase in volume, his eyebrows twitched hearing him refer to his coworkers as 'devil disguised whores.'

his hokas squeaked a little too loudly as he approached the scene, the heat emitting from his ears could turn his nape white. behind the curtain he could see shadows rapidly moving in panic, and a figure thrashing violently.

"mr. titus you have to stay still!"

"i'll be damned if i let another one of you freaks try to help me again!" slurring his words.

"if you try to touch me there again we're gettin-" jason ripped open the curtain quicker than she could respond, the relief in the room palpable. "i wish you the best of luck mr. titus, feel better." the words laced with sarcasm, the nurse gave jason a brief nod and rushing out with every lack of concern for the patient.

he cracked a knuckle and sighed deeply, mr. titus raking in his form, gauging whether or not he wanted to take this fight. jason peered through the patient, booze leaking from his pores, eyes bloodshot, dirt caked under his nails. he slipped on the second glove, the black latex threatening to burst at the seams, he reminded himself to special order his size.

"what seems to be the problem today?" he stood brazenly, arms to his sides. awaiting the opportunity to give this inconvenience a piece of his mind, and body.

"i'm tryin' to cut the booze kid, swear it! my skin is on fuckin' fire, my blood is about to explode, i just wanted some fucking morphine before that... bitch... tried to stab me with something." he said with dimming confidence, mr. titus suspected something about this nurse was not to be toyed with.

"i want you to repeat yourself one more time, i didn't hear you quite right." jason deadpanned, hoping to every god watching him at this moment gave him the justification tonight, just one time.

"i said, that b-" immediately mr. titus yelped as jason tightened his grip on the mans leg, staring into the contents of his eyes, begging him to finish his sentence.

"i think i know the perfect treatment for that."

loud painful shouts emitted from the curtain, "help me, please god!" the patient shouted hurriedly. granted, in gotham presbyterian hospital that was the least of the doctors concerns.

"oh he's not coming for either of us tonight mr. titus, it's just you and me sweetheart."

[misano17]

yo my mom is asking me for research on what t does and how reliable it is and i don't feel like wading through transphobic shit or researching on my own rn- do you have any recent sources on regret rates + positive effects + the various methods of applying testosterone? ty. also i would listen to u forever

I don't have the resources on hand but I can get back to you later with sources and I can ask the university departments I work with for resources as well.

I can give anecdotal stuff as a rootin tootin North Carolinian who has been on T for a year. My advice may not apply for getting on T in your state/country but I can explain how I went about my process, why I choose injection instead of patches, and how injecting has been for me + how to do it safely, and what effects I've had in my first year + some of my lab results and why my results are what they are, so you can make informed medical decisions/put together research 🫡.

K so effects generally for me have been:

More hair, my hair grows faster all over my body including my head

Deeper voice. For the first six months I also experienced a lot of voice cracks, though with my choir background and heavy vocal training prior to HRT my voice was already a bit androgenous, so the effects were quick.

Acne. It's puberty again, though my acne was more manageable cuz I was taking care of my skin this time. I still have acne but that's more cuz my pharmacy has been inconsistent with my refills so on weeks when I don't have my T my acne gets worse. On a side note your skin also gets tougher, but I'll come back to this later with the injection post.

Bottom growth. Make sure you have loose boxers and stuff that won't irritate yer nerves cuz that can be a pain. It's usually a non-issue but it can be real annoying when it's first occurring.

Body Temp increase. I am the world's sweatiest man, I was already a bit sweaty before T but dear god am I the sweat lord now. If it ever seemed weird to you that middle school/high school boys could be outside in winter in shorts... this is why. I generally don't feel temperature cuz of autism related hyposensitivity but I do notice a slight difference in my body's reactions to temperature. I don't get goosebumps as often now.

Masculinizing my frame + face. K so this one will be more subtle and slow but your face and body will masculinize. After about a year your chest will reduce in size a bit, and your fat will redistribute into a more masculine-ish kinda way.

No more period. As soon as I started I stopped having periods. (there may be a medical reason for me specifically for why this occurred so fast and I'll elaborate on that lower in this post)

Other people also report an increased sex drive, I did not get this but this is probably because I do not have a sex drive at all.

Anyways on a labs note, before starting T I already had elevated levels of T in my blood. My primary care provider and I have a few explanations for this that we've been floating around but we haven't pursued any yet. I had irregular and infrequent periods since like starting my period, so we assume I have something goin on.

Testosterone injections, how I got on T, + the medical stuff:

Dosage: My doctor started me on 200ml once a week. According to my other trans masc friends this is quite high, but I experienced immediate changes.

Informed Consent: In order to start T I did not need to see a therapist. I sought out a primary care provider (using google to look at my options) and pick one who would help me get on HRT the fastest and monitor its impact on my body to keep me safe. I was also picking my primary care going forward so I also took other stuff into consideration. Anyways the primary care provider I picked uses informed consent as his metric for how to approach my transition care. My insurance at the time didn't cover transition care so it cost me 70$ for twelve weeks + like 25 cents per needle.

Speaking of needles... Injecting: Ight so I use a 25 gauge 5/8ths inch needle to inject once per week on my thigh. I inject on the top of my thigh cuz T is intramuscular and I don't wanna hit a vein. I draw up my T with an 18 gauge cuz T is THICK.

Anyways here's the injection process from start to finish:

Swab the top of yer T bottle with an alcohol pad

Grab yer syringe, sometimes I get syringes with 18 gauges already on and sometimes I get syringes with 25 gauges already on. If you have a 25 gauge on yer syringe in the package, use the package to twist it off and LEAVE IT IN THE PACKAGE WHEN YOU REMOVE THE SYRINGE. Be careful not to let anything touch, you do not want an infection, if stuff does touch use an alcohol pad.

Draw up. Get your desired dosage in the syringe, and take it out of the bottle. BEFORE YOU TAKE YOUR 18 GAUGE NEEDLE OFF THE SYRINGE draw all the T that's left in the needle into the syringe this helps get rid of air bubbles and use as much of that T as you have paid for.

Use the packaging that the 25 gauge is in to screw it onto your needle.

Push the plunger of the needle a bit to get all the air out, do that thing that doctors do where they flick it as well, and push it ever so slightly to get a droplet going down the needle. You don't want air bubbles, be thorough.

Swab the area you are about to inject.

Align the needle with this directly, don't go in at an angle, you want this straight.

Get it in yer skin, then pull out a bit to check for blood. If there is blood choose a different spot cuz you hit a vein, and you do not want to be hitting veins. Once you get a good spot push all the T in.

After you pull the needle out immediately apply direct pressure to the area. I recommend using an alcohol pad for this.

Rest and recover. For people who are afraid of needles, or just generally don't like pain (there isn't much but your body, especially if you aren't used to injecting will exaggerate things to you mentally. After you skin gets rougher injecting can get harder, and this can make things more difficult.) be gentle to yourself. You can get a friend to help you, or get some music as part of your ritual. Just give yourself some kind of positive thing to associate with this cuz it helps and you deserve it. The general thing to remember is to inject in different spots based on your hrt specialist/primary care/ doctor's recommendation. My primary care recommends switching legs, but over time I've started exclusively injecting in my left leg cuz it's easier for me. I vary the spot on my thigh rather than the leg. Be kind to yourself and make sure to vary spots.

Also you might be sore after doing T for the first couple months, this does eventually go away (at least in my case). Try to schedule the day of the week (or every two weeks, some doctors prefer to prescribe two week plans) so that you have a day where you can rest afterwards. My school schedule last semester on my mountain-ahh campus made injecting on Monday easiest, cuz I only had one class on Tuesday.

Anyways I choose not to do gel/patches cuz A. My mother is a nurse and I like needles, B. It works better for me cuz I don't like the smell of gels and patches, and C. From what I've seen it tends to work a bit faster, especially if you are very active, and I live on a mountain and hike everyday, so I am quite active.

Ight so accessing T:

The way I went about this was by getting a primary care provider who was willing to help me access it by prescribing it. I made it clear that my intention was to transition and I wanted hormones as soon as possible. My primary care walked me through the side effects, and made sure I had done my own research first before considering it. After that we did my labs to check what levels would be safe to prescribe me. He walked me through the process of injecting, and made sure I was informed on everything and consenting.

So North Carolina, to my knowledge makes it not too difficult to get on T with a healthcare provider backing you, but I was also 18 at the time.

Anyways I'll be back with sources when I get the time, cuz erm this is all anecdotal from my personal experiences. But I can also say with certainty that I've experienced nothing but gender euphoria in doing T. I wake up everyday and see my new self in the mirror, and it fills my soul with joy I didn't know I was capable of feeling. I'll be getting surgery this summer, and I am very excited for that as well.

Anyways if yer a North Carolinian and want advice on legal name change stuff here for over 18 year olds lemme know. I just got through the process without a lawyer so I can help with that if you need advice 👍

[the-cookie-of-doom]

Two of Kim’s ribs are broken. Another three, right over his heart, are cracked. Four hours ago a surgeon dug bullet fragments out of his right arm, and an hour before that, a nurse dug an 18 gauge needle into the back of his right hand to place an IV. Now he’s got an oxygen monitor taped around the index finger of that same hand, and the IV is still there, running fluids and opiates into his system, making it easy to ignore every ache and break in his body, every bruise. 

Even better than the drugs, though, is the boy in his lap. 

Porchay is beautiful. His hair is curled in gentle waves around his face, and his eyes are half-lidded, trained on Kim, the corners crinkling with fondness. His lips—Kim has dreamed about those lips for so many nights—are upturned into a gentle smile. His shirt is unbuttoned down his chest, revealing a tantalizing expanse of tan skin, the soft curve of his belly. His thighs, spread over Kim’s own, are soft, too. Kim pets them, a hand on each, Chay’s skin warm beneath his palms. So soft. 

“Are you with me, P’Kim?” Chay asks. There’s laughter in his voice. Kim thinks Chay probably said something else, too, and Kim is only just now hearing him. 

“Where else would I be?” Kim replies. 

The answer is nowhere. There’s nowhere else he would rather be than here, with Chay, even wounded as he is, because Chay is here with him, and nothing else matters. He nudges his fingertips beneath the hem of Chay’s boxers in search of more soft skin. He slides his hands in a little bit, just so his thumbs can brush over Chay’s inner thighs, where he’s even softer. Sensitive, too, Chay’s hips twitching when Kim’s fingers press in a little hard, dimpling the skin. 

“You’re cute, P’Kim.”

“Angel.” Kim sighs. His eyes slip closed—they’re so heavy, he can’t keep them open, but he forces himself to, unwilling to miss even a movement of the vision before him. 

Chay’s giggle sounds like tinkling bells. Kim wants to record it, so he can play it for himself over and over again.

[a-bit-of-writing]

FNAF - Third Shift

Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy's 

Character: Mike Schmidt 

Words: 596

Summary: 

Mike knew the job was shady, but he didn’t expect the walls to whisper or the lights to die one by one. By Night Three, it’s not about doing the job anymore. It's about surviving whatever’s crawling closer when the cameras go dark.

By Night Three, Mike Schmidt stopped pretending the animatronics were "just faulty programming."

The cameras lied.

The lights flickered in places they shouldn’t.

Sometimes - only sometimes - he heard his own name whispered through the static.

He sat hunched in the security office, sweat sticking his uniform to his back, the muted hum of the fan slicing through the silence like a blade.

Stay calm, he told himself. Just six hours.

The clock above the door, old and yellowed with grease, ticked sluggishly.

It was 1:11 AM.

Mike checked the East Hall camera.

Bonnie, the rabbit, stood there - too close to the lens - face a blur of cracked plastic and dead, staring eyes.

He snapped the camera off.

Took a breath.

Swallowed down the nausea.

They couldn't hurt him. Not if he stayed careful. Not if he stayed awake.

————

2:23 AM.

He heard it - the wet scrape of something dragging against linoleum.

A heavy, broken sound.

Mike flicked on the hallway light, hand trembling.

Nothing.

Just shadows pooling unnaturally, reaching a little too far.

The monitor buzzed.

The backstage camera glitched and then - movement.

A twitch of metal fingers.

Mike lowered the monitor.

Turned.

Chica was standing just outside the office doorway.

Not moving.

Just... waiting.

Her beak was chipped open in a mockery of a smile.

Her bib - LET’S EAT!!! - was smeared brown with some old, unidentifiable stain.

Mike hit the door button.

The security door slammed shut with a shriek of rusted metal.

Chica didn't even flinch.

She simply tilted her head at him, slow and unnatural, as if wondering how long he could last before he cracked.

Mike stared back, breathing shallowly, heart hammering like a trapped bird in his chest.

————

3:49 AM.

The power levels were dropping fast.

Too fast.

No matter how little he checked the lights, how long he sat in the dark, the battery gauge sank steadily, an executioner counting down seconds.

And all the while, the suits moved.

Sometimes he thought he could hear them just beyond the door - 

metal jaws grinding, motors whirring faintly, broken voice boxes letting out warbled notes of a song he almost remembered from childhood birthday parties.

Sometimes he swore he saw something else - 

a shape half-glimpsed in the corner of his eye, something slumped and golden, twitching with malice.

But when he turned, there was nothing.

Nothing but the humming fan.

Nothing but the cold, sweaty grip of fear.

————

5:55 AM.

Minutes left.

Just minutes.

Mike could see the finish line, could practically feel the paycheck in his hands, cheap ink bleeding onto his skin.

But the monitors were dead.

The lights were dying.

And Freddy was singing.

Softly.

Somewhere in the dark.

Mike closed his eyes.

He could hear the footsteps coming down the west hall.

Slow.

Measured.

Almost gentle.

He wondered, distantly, what his obituary would say.

Maybe they’d call him a hero.

Maybe no one would even notice.

He thought of the others - those who came before him.

Phone Guy’s last garbled message played back in his mind like a broken record.

"See you on the flip side..."

————

When the clock turned 6:00 AM, the bell rang.

The power blinked out entirely.

Mike sat there in the dark, alone, waiting.

And somewhere in the hollow ribs of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza,

something laughed.

A slow, rasping sound,

as if the building itself was breathing him in,

pulling him down,

claiming him piece by piece.

He didn’t realize he was crying until the first tear hit the floor, soaking into the grease-stained carpet.

But there was no one left to hear him.

Not anymore.

[sonicasura]

So its a GodzilaKakfa! au then. Good to know.

Got to wonder how well Mina is gonna take it when she learns that this almost 70 feet tall giant is her old chilhood friend.

Also, 10 is so going to try and fight Kakfa as soon as he hears about it. Theres noway that battle crayzed kaiju is not gonna try ans see wether or not this one is a worthy rival.

And wonder how'd 9 feel when he learns that the huminod kaiju he fought was actually only an avatar, and not the real one.

If Godzilla was an eldritch kind-hearted himbo that doesn't have a devastating breath attack than yeah. Also No.9 would consider himself lucky and quite nervous to put it bluntly. If such a small avatar carried that much power, then the real deal was a whole lot worse. (Kafka munched on the larger mushroom Honju.)

Our Kaiju man also sends out another avatar when the base gets attacked by No.10 specifically the giant suicide bomb moment. The Kaiju showing up for information on where No.8's den is and believed whoever was in charge there knew. You see the Third Division were one of the forces assigned to monitor the odd giant.

Half the reason being a learning opportunity for the new recruits to study a kaiju's movements as No.8 is docile around humans. (Kafka's privacy can be considered random so he often deploys a few little lizard copies to gauge when he has to play pretend.) Mina really doesn't take the reveal well.

Imagine you're preparing to capture No.8's avatar only for him to say 'I'm sorry for breaking my last promise, Mina.' His voice being a distorted version of your oldest friend's and the cracks in the mask shows an older yet familiar human face before vanishing into a mini lizard swarm. The latest orders just made it worse.

Mina was ordered to aid in the capture of No.8 as the new containment site for him is now ready. Yup! She has to shoot her dearest friend and make sure he's tranquilized enough to safely transport. Luckily Hoshina's there for emotional support.

[kagaoanengineering]

Crack Gauge Monitoring for Infrastructure Safety

Crack gauge monitoring consultants provide thorough assessments from initial inspection to ongoing monitoring. Their expertise ensures the safety and longevity of structures by accurately measuring crack movement. To learn more, visit us!

[frizzle-tales]

Jiyeon didn’t respond immediately to Namjoon’s ‘gift’. At first, Jiyeon thought the ankle monitor was some sort of sick gag gift and that the two men would shortly burst into laughter, but to her disappointment that moment never came. Jiyeon glanced over to Taehyung to gauge his expression, but to much dismay it seemed that he was okay with this bizarre gift.

Namjoon made it sound generous, as if she should be grateful for this fake sense of freedom, this was such a joke.

She forced a small smile, because that’s what was expected. “Thank you,” Jiyeon said, her voice as sweet as she could fake it, though it trembled at the end. “That’ll make things easier… I guess.”

Later, as they were sitting together, Nara spoke up first after Jiyeon’s failed attempt to reconcile— unfortunately for her, it was only to badmouth the two men, but she’d take anything over Nara being mad at her and ignoring her.

“Yeah… They are both very confident.” she murmured, trying to meet Nara halfway. But she wasn’t sure if that helped. At her question, Jiyeon hesitated, then spoke quietly, “I don’t know… They both seem to be really good at chess.”

A voice broke their temporary peace. Jiyeon straightened as the bottle clinked down. Her hands folded on her lap as she looked down— was she in trouble? No, she couldn’t be, everything was so good today…

The moment Namjoon proposed the “game”, Jiyeon’s stomach turned. She already knew. Knew where it would go. She glanced at Nara— saw the tension in her face, the quick inhale. Jiyeon didn’t say a word. Not yet.

Taehyung approached her and gave her a soft peck, and she barely managed to say a “Good luck” to him until he walked off.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want any of this.

The silence as the chess game unfolded was unbearable. Jiyeon picked at her sleeve, unable to speak and unwilling to look at how the match was going.

Then, checkmate. Followed by her being called over by Taehyung.

Jiyeon didn’t speak at first. She was silent, obedient, her eyes lowered as she stepped towards Taehyung the second he lifted his finger, like muscle memory. Like survival. Unlike Nara, she wouldn’t protest. She wouldn’t dare. She just clung to the small hope that doing what she was told might keep her safe tonight.

But Nara snapped.

“Lovely?” she spat, face twisted with disbelief. “You think she’s lovely? She’s just good at doing whatever the fuck is asked of her! You both just like them brainless without backbone! Always so quiet, so perfect— like a little doll you wind up and put on a shelf.”

Her voice cracked as she stepped forward, glass crunching under her heel. “Namjoon. You said…”

Her eyes flicked to Jiyeon, full of fury and something else—jealousy, desperation, betrayal. “She always gets away with everything! It’s her turn!” Nara protested.

This was too much for the ex college student.

Namjoon soon landed the first punch and Nara went down instantly— he punched down on her as if he was in a fist fight with another grown man; ruthless.

Jiyeon slipped out of Taehyung’s hold and fled the scene, and once she reached the hallway, she made a quick glance at the front door, but instead opted for the stairs, running upstairs and only coming to a stop in their bedroom. Jiyeon hid in their bed and covered her head with the pillow, but the other woman’s screams and cries echoed through the home and she wasn’t able to escape from it.

Maybe Nara was right. Why was she so stupid? Jiyeon sniffled as tears rolled down her face— if Namjoon didn’t stop Taehyung, what would’ve happened to her? Would Taehyung be throwing these punches too? Would he beat her up, for what? Sick entertainment for his best friend?

How much worse would things get when they’re married? When she’s pregnant? Them having kids? What would Taehyung do to her when she’s baby trapped and under his mercy? If their child misbehaves?

Things finally calmed down after what felt like forever, and she could hear the vague sounds of the couple leaving, before the door closed and Jiyeon could hear Taehyung’s footsteps on the stairs.

Jiyeon initially didn’t move or speak when he first walked in, staying hidden under the sheets, but then she finally spoke up. “Taehyung…” She called out softly as she sat up, the sheets sliding down her body. “I want to go home.” She dared to say.

“Not this home— my real home. I want to go to grandma’s. I don’t want to be here anymore, I can’t—” Her words tripped over each other as her breathing picked up pace, shallow and rapid, chest heaving now. “I don’t want to be here anymore!” She slid off the bed, tears streaming down her face, she sobbed for a few seconds before she spoke again.

“Please, I’ve been here for long enough, please, I want to leave, I don’t want this, I don’t want to get married, I don’t want this life, I didn’t want to drop out!” Her breathing paced faster as she avoided his eyes.

“I changed my mind, please, please let me go, I won’t tell the police!” Her gaze darted to the door, panic overtaking reason. Her breath hitched as she spoke faster and louder.

“I won’t tell anyone! Not the police—nobody— I swear! I won’t say a thing, I’ll disappear, you’ll never hear from me again just please—“

And then she ran.

Bolting toward the door, desperate, frantic.

[🎙️]

A small sigh escaped Taehyung’s lips.

His gaze watched his fiancé scamper back upstairs, presumably to their bedroom. Just like a meek little mouse.

But he didn’t follow her, not yet at least. He stayed back, watching yet another punishment unfold for the woman he already greatly disliked, but was now starting to loathe.

“This is your very last chance, Nara.” Namjoon’s voice hung low in a dangerous warning. “One more mistake, no matter how minuscule, I will kill you.” He hardly got a whimper as a response.

“You will not be welcome back in my home, or around Jiyeon, until I see fit.” Taehyung led them to the door, seeing the two out. With a parting goodbye to his friend, they left.

Finally, he could check on his fiancé.

The bedroom door shut behind him with a creak. A smile grew on the man’s lips, spotting Jiyeon curled up in their bed. “Taehyung…” She spoke first.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He answered with a hum, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. She looked so warm enveloped by his sheets.

“I want to go home. Not this home — my real home.”

The softness in Taehyung eyes hardened like a trickling stream turning to solid ice. The affection slowly dripping off his face with every word she uttered.

“Quit being ridiculous, Jiyeonnie.” He chuckled. Low. Dark. Giving her a chance. “This game you’re playing is going to get you in trouble.”

Instead of hearing his warning, her cries only grew, and in a split second, she was darting for the door.

Just as her fingers grazed the knob, a pair of arms snaked around her waist, locking her back flush against his chest.

“Enough.” Taehyung warned in her ear. He sighed at her frantic struggle, his hands catching her wrists, pinning them together. “Stop fighting me. You need to calm down, I’m helping you.” He stood unfazed by her desperate attempts to wiggle free, crying, gasping in whatever air she could.

He kept her locked in place until she slowly calmed, her sudden flame flickering out. “Are you calm now?” He waited for her answer before continuing. “Good.” The hand holding her wrists let go, instead moving to her knees, scooping her up. “Now let’s focus on that little outburst of yours.”

Taehyung carried her to the sofa, sitting down with her on his lap.

“You don’t want to be here anymore? This isn’t your real home? You don’t want this life?” He repeated her words with in a taunting tone.

“You can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer to him. “Who are you trying to lie to, me or yourself? If you didn’t want this so badly.. you wouldn’t lean in every time I kiss you, or cuddle into me while we fall asleep at night.” His lips skimmed against the shell of her ear. “You wouldn’t take so much care of your ring either.” His hands trailed down the softness of her sweater dress to her hips, beginning to bunch and pull up the fabric. “Let’s not forget how much you moan my name, or shiver when I touch you just like...” One of his hands strayed away, slipping under her dress, in between her thighs.

“You really can’t lie to me, Jiyeonnie.” Taehyung kept his gaze glued to his fiancé. Watching her cheeks grow flushed, seeing the way she twitched, fought back moans, while he played with her, the thing fabric of her panties being the only bearer between them. “You wouldn’t feel like this if you didn’t want to be here, if you didn’t want this.”

Before she could get too close, he pulled away, his fingers his circling around her throat. “I’m going to make this crystal clear, never forget it. This is your home now. Not with your grandparents, not with anyone else. Your home is with me, wherever I am. You belong to me, you’re mine.” With the grip around her throat, he pulled her closer until her lips were on his. After a few moments he pulled away, allowing her to catch a breath of air.

“Do you understand me?” Taehyung tilted her chin so she’d look at him. “Are you ever going to ask to leave again? Who do you belong to?”

When he was satisfied with her answers, he finally cracked a smile, resting back in the sofa. “It was Nara who got you all worked up like this tonight, wasn’t it?”

[thoughtportal]

In order to catch liars, the ancient Chinese would sometimes give the accused a mouthful of uncooked rice during interrogation—and then ask the person to open wide. Dry rice would indicate a dry mouth, considered evidence of nervous guilt—and sometimes grounds for execution.

The notion that lying produces observable physical side effects has stuck with us, and one man thought he’d cracked the science of lie detection in the 1920s, amid a truly modern boom in crime. This was the era of Prohibition, dominated by bootlegging gangsters—Chicago alone was said to be home to 1,300 gangs—and some police departments adopted increasingly brutal tactics to wring the truth out of suspects: beating and burning detainees with cigarettes, or depriving them of sleep. Unconstitutional but widely applied across the nation, according to a major report commissioned by then-President Herbert Hoover, these techniques did result in confessions—many of them highly dubious. 

One police chief in California thought he could usher in a new era in which science would make the interrogation process more accurate and humane. August Vollmer of the Berkeley Police Department was a committed reformer who began recruiting college graduates to help professionalize the force. His interests dovetailed with those of John A. Larson, who had recently received a PhD in physiology from the University of California, Berkeley, and had a passion for justice. Larson joined the Berkeley force in 1920, becoming the first rookie in the country with a doctorate. 

Vollmer and Larson were particularly intrigued by the possibilities of a simple new deception test pioneered by William Marston, a lawyer and psychologist who would later earn fame as the creator of Wonder Woman, with her famous Lasso of Truth. (Marston unofficially used the test on some criminal defendants during probation proceedings.) Larson spent punishing hours creating a far more sophisticated test, tinkering in his university lab on an odd-looking assemblage of pumps and gauges that he would attach to the human body using an arm cuff and chest strap. His device would measure changes in pulse, respiration and blood pressure all at once, during continuous monitoring of a subject under interrogation. Larson believed the contraption would flag false answers via distinct fluctuations etched by a stylus onto a revolving drum of paper. An operator would then analyze and interpret the results. 

By the spring of 1921, Larson unveiled the machine he called a cardio-pneumo-psychogram, and later simply a polygraph, a nod to the multiple physical signals recorded by the stylus. A San Francisco Examiner report later said it looked like some mix of “a radio set, a stethoscope, a dentist’s drill, a gas stove” and more, all arranged on a long wooden table. However ramshackle it appeared, Larson’s innovation, with its continuous battery of measurements, leaped beyond all previous attempts to track the body’s involuntary responses. In a frenzy of sensationalist reporting, the press dubbed Larson’s polygraph a “lie detector,” and the Examiner swooned: “All liars, regardless of cleverness, are doomed.” 

Larson himself didn’t quite buy the hype. As he tested the invention, he found an alarming error rate and grew increasingly concerned about its official use. And while many departments across the country embraced the device, judges proved even more skeptical than Larson. As early as 1923, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia ruled polygraph results inadmissible at trial because the tests were not widely accepted by relevant experts. Still, cops kept using the machine. Larson watched in dismay as a former colleague patented an updated version of the idea in 1931. 

While Larson’s original machine collected dust, imitators with sleeker modern versions proliferated, all hewing roughly to the same parameters as Larson’s—and millions of people were subject to testing. During the Cold War, the State Department used polygraph tests to oust alleged Communist sympathizers and gay employees from the federal government. Many innocent government workers lost their livelihoods, while others who were eventually exposed as treasonous—including the infamous spy Aldrich Ames—managed to dupe the tests. For his part, Larson got a medical degree and spent his remaining career as a psychiatrist. Yet he was forever soured on the polygraph, eventually describing the device as his very own “Frankenstein’s monster,” unable to be controlled or killed. 

In 1988, Congress finally passed a law generally banning private employers from requiring the test, though some government agencies still turn to it for screening, and police may use it on suspects as an investigative tool under certain circumstances. 

“It’s an instrument of great hope but also great pain,” says Kristen Frederick-Frost, curator of modern science at the National Museum of American History, where Larson’s original polygraph anchors an exhibition, “Forensic Science on Trial,” open through next summer. In the 1930s, the Berkeley Police Department almost tossed the machine in the trash, but Vollmer thought it might one day have historical value and saved it. In 1976, the Berkeley Police Department donated it to the Smithsonian, where it sat in storage for decades. Over the past five years, seven conservators have helped to revive its motley parts for display. Some of the rubber and plastic had become stiff and degraded. Other parts were fragile, grimy or missing. The paper was seriously compromised. Today, though, “it doesn’t look like an old dusty thing that nobody cares about,” says Janice Stagnitto Ellis, the museum’s paper conservator. “It looks vital.” 

[burntoutangel]

MECHANICAL SEX DRIVES

LEFT HAND AMMO AT 20% SHIELDS AT 10% ASSISTED AUGMENT SYSTEM RECOMMENDING IMMEDIATE RETURN TO BASE MISSION AT ACCEPTABLE LEVELS PILOT I AM BEGGING YOU TO TURN BAC-

Shut down the warning signs, disconnect the jack in your cranial nerves that lets the onboard AI inject suggestions tactics and orders from base command directly into you brain 

You dont need them now   

10-15 enemy units are closing in on your radar, 100 feet, 90 feet, tanks with jet engines jammed into them to allow increased maneuvers and speed. 500 feet shows an enemy mech, the one you’re chasing. So close now, just a little more

40 feet

20 feet

Enemy within range 

You slam yourself through the concrete walls of the civilian residence you hid behind, the trinkets and purchases of someones life atomized in a second, a careful move to throw off the lesser visibility of the tanks

The first two are crushed under a mix of rubble and reinforced steel beams, wires from the buildings power systems sparking and igniting fuel leaks. You’re already gone and grabbing tank 4 as a club, its rotors squealing in open air as you crush it on top of tank 5, crushing them underfoot for good measure, neural links sending the details of a fleshy squish under your metal boots

3 units that had the misfortune of jetting behind you are torched in your boosters, jets of black smoke from the meat inside being cooked within seconds, they weren’t expecting a mech of this class, metal boxes with guns strapped on top are barely above the lowest rank of the food chain of combat

You arent sure if you’re the apex of that system, but you’re damn close 

The radar blip of the other pilot starts moving and you kick the violence into overdrive to make sure you’re ready and unbothered for her arrival, tanks 6-9 shatter and melt under you remaining left weapon ammo, not worth the waste of time for a proper violent death

She’s so close now

A few of the remaining tanks and what looks like two support flyers have joined her, jetting along in her wake like parasite fish, using her cone of violence to protect them from you. Gnats. Annoying insects that get in the way

You can see her through the optical systems now. Shining armor muddied and covered in scrap and imbedded shells and oil. The jagged mark of you shoulder mounted rail guns shot accents the beauty of her machine, a hole bitten through her abdominal armor, dripping oil and coolant and countless other substances that come together to make the death-angel before you.

Your fluids will mix soon. One way or another.

“YOU PSYCHO WHORE YOU DENTED MY SHELL” comes through her mechs speakers in a flurry of anger. Right shoulder lancer raised, charging, adjust two notches down, FIRE. That takes care of her speakers. We don’t need voices right now. 

She cuts boosters and doesn’t even bother counter boosting, simply stopping her furious momentum by crushing another apartment block, hands dragging deep gauges in the remaining landscape 

The remaining tanks are hit by your last 6 railgun shots, smoking craters burned into the ground as the flyers pepper small arms along your visors, blinding flashes as 7.62 shots ring against the sensors and antenna.

Out of nowhere her hand swats one out of the air, surprising even you Into stopping for a moment. Flyer 1 clips 2 as it sails through the sky, propelled by metal claws larger than its entire frame. Both create a cascade of sparks and light as missiles flares and fuel ignite midair. An incoming message from the last enemy in front of you flashes on your side monitor.

“FINE, WE’LL DO THIS THE HARD WAY”. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Her heat knife eats through the plating of your left shoulder, jutting close to the collarbone before the blade snaps in your armor and imbeds itself to you. The pain is unimaginable, burning through the pilots nervous system as it screams loud enough to crack its own jaw slightly. The retaliation is immediate, a final spare railgun round rammed through your enemies leg, blowing her mechanical kneecap out, the arching head of her mech mimicking the agony her flesh-body is probably going through, metal jaw ripping open and spiked forehead crashing into your own as the final bit of shielding for both your bodies gives way with an ear popping CRACK and a smell of ozone and desperation. A fist that costs as much or more as this entire city unit crashes into your stomach, flesh body vomiting up a mix of pre mission meds and nutrient slurry as your nervous system tries to understand feeling pain without apparent source 

Your left leg boosts itself up at uncanny speeds, remaining boosters jetting it into her center mass, where a solar plexus would be if we were flesh and blood, her visor is cracking and you can feel the anger radiating off her core. Either that or a power system on the verge of collapse. Same difference. At the same time warning signs flash across your eyes, power running low, generator damage at near critical levels, heat rising to unacceptable perimeters, pilot neural-link and information stress at 88% and rising

Both of your bodies collapse, her failing knee dragging her down as metal screams under stress, her hands clawing you down with her, falling flat on your back, adjustment boosters spluttering as they fail to adjust the sudden horizontal nature of your body. Command is screaming at you over whats left of the comm system, and from the shivers of her body she’s hearing the same message, something about “reactor meltdowns taking out an entire populated area” and “blatant waste of company resources”.  The wires remaining in your brain make a pop as you rip them from sore and bleeding ports, last message being broadcast on a private mech to mech channel

“See you back at base baby, thanks for the good time <3”

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Maybe Don’t Enter An Unlocked Door

You come home from work later than usual, the weight of your shift still clinging to you like a heavy coat. The apartment door is slightly ajar, a detail you barely notice in your exhaustion. Jay’s been on an undercover assignment for the past week, and he’s known to slip in and out without so much as a heads-up. You’d given up trying to keep track of his unpredictable hours. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home early and forgotten to lock the door behind him.

With a sigh, you push the door open and step inside, calling his name softly. “Jay?” The apartment is quiet. The lights are off, except for the glow of the kitchen nightlight. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s grabbing a quick shower.

That’s when you hear the shuffle behind you. Before you can react, an arm wraps around your neck in a tight chokehold. You struggle, clawing at the iron grip, but your attacker is strong, unforgiving. His voice is low and rough in your ear, spitting venom. “Your boyfriend put me away for a long time. Now he’s gonna pay…with you.”

Fear explodes in your chest, but training (and survival instinct) kicks in. You thrash, elbowing him as hard as you can. He snarls and slams you against the wall. Pain blooms in your side as he drives a blade deep, and the world blurs. You fight until you can’t anymore, until every breath is a battle.

Meanwhile, at Matt’s Place

Matt Casey sits at his dining table, glancing at the clock. You’re forty-five minutes late, which is odd even for her. Usually, you’d have texted, maybe with a playful apology. A sinking feeling settles in his gut.

He tries calling, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Without hesitation, he grabs his keys and heads for her apartment.

The Apartment

The door is ajar when he arrives. His heart stops. He bursts inside, calling your name. The sight that greets him sends a cold dread through his veins, his little sister crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. Her breaths are shallow, labored.

“Hey, hey, stay with me!” he shouts, his voice cracking as he grabs his phone and dials 911. “Officer down! I need an ambulance at 1530 West 14th, she’s been stabbed! She’s losing a lot of blood!”

He presses his hand to her wound, fighting to keep her conscious.

The Ambulance Ride

Severide’s eyes narrow as he sees you on the floor. He drops beside you, gauging the damage. “We got a single stab wound to the abdomen, possible internal bleeding. BP’s dropping fast.”

Stella grabs the IV kit, hands steady despite the tension in the air. “We need fluids, lots of ‘em. Let’s get her outta here!”

Matt tries to climb into the ambulance, panic on his face. Severide holds him back gently. “We’ll take care of her, Matt. Let us do our job.”

Stella’s voice is calm but urgent as she radios ahead. “Med, we’ve got a critical trauma, female, approximately 25. Stab wound with suspected internal bleeding, low BP, tachycardic. Coding now….starting CPR!”

Your chest stops rising. Severide jumps in with compressions, while Stella grabs the bag valve mask. “We’re losing her!”

Severide shouts: “Push epi, now!”

They work furiously; compressions, oxygen, fluids. Her heart stutters on the monitor, then flatlines.

Stella’s eyes flash with determination. “Come on, sweetheart. Stay with us.”

After a tense 45 seconds, the monitor beeps. Weak, but yours back.

Severide exhales. “We’ve got a rhythm. Keep bagging her, she’s gotta make it.”

Stella nods. “Get the intubation kit. She’s not breathing on her own.”

Severide stabilizes your head while Stella intubates her with practiced precision. The tube slides home. You’re breathing… mechanically, but you’re alive.

Chicago Med

Connor Rhodes and Will Halstead are waiting in Trauma 1 when the doors slam open. Severide and Stella rush her in, shouting vitals and handing off.

“She coded twice in the ambulance, intubated, BP tanked, possible internal bleeding, GCS 3,” Stella rattles off.

Connor’s eyes dart to Will, both men tensing. “We gotta get her on the table, fast.”

They cut your clothes away, revealing the wound, a deep stab to the left upper quadrant. Blood pools beneath her.

“Massive hemoperitoneum,” Connor says, voice urgent.

Will’s hands shake. “That’s my brother’s girl,” he mutters.

Connor grabs his shoulder. “Focus. We save her.”

They open her belly in the OR. Blood pours out. Will suctions while Connor clamps a bleeder.

“She’s crashing, BP 60 over palp,” Will says.

“Bolus fluids… another unit of blood,” Connor barks.

Her heart stutters on the monitor. Will’s eyes widen. “She’s coding again.”

Connor grabs the paddles. “Clear!”

You jolt, once, twice. Weak rhythm returns.

Connor sighs. “We’ve got her…..barely.”

Post-Op

Connor and Will scrub out, pale and exhausted.

Jay, Hailey, and Matt wait outside, faces drawn tight.

Connor meets their eyes. “She’s stable… right now. She lost a lot of blood and went into cardiac arrest twice. We repaired a lacerated spleen, stopped a major bleeder from the liver, but she’s critical. We had to intubate her in the field to keep her airway secure.”

Will steps forward. “She fought hard. We’re putting her in a medically induced coma to let her body rest and heal. She needs every chance she can get.”

Matt’s voice trembles. “But she’s gonna make it, right?”

Connor nods slowly. “We’re giving her every chance, Matt. It’s gonna be a rough road.”

Hailey’s hand finds Jay’s. “We need to tell him.”

Will swallows, eyes wet. “Jay…” He hesitates. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected her. But she fought back. She’s tough, Jay.”

Jay’s eyes brim with tears. “This is my fault. That ex-con, he was after me.”

Connor’s voice is firm. “No one’s blaming you. She’s here because she’s strong and because we’re not gonna let her go.”

Just then, Severide enters, still in his medic gear. “We got him. The guy’s in custody. He won’t hurt anyone else.”

Matt’s jaw clenches. “Thanks, Severide. For everything.”

Severide gives a small, tired smile. “Hey, it’s what we do.”

Jay steps to the window, eyes on you. “I’m not leaving her side.”

Will’s voice is gentle. “She’ll need you when she wakes up, Jay. She’s a fighter.

Recovery

Light flickers. Your eyes flutter open, pain rolling through you. Machines beep and hiss. Jay’s face looms above you, tear-streaked but relieved.

“Hey,” he chokes out. “I’m here.”

You manage a weak smile. “Hey, yourself.”

His voice is thick. “I’m so sorry. I let this happen to you.”

You shake your head slowly. “Jay, I fought. I gave him hell.” A wry grin. “You know me, never mind a tossle with danger.”

Jay laughs through tears. “Yeah, I know. But I’d rather you leave the fighting to me.”

Matt stands behind him, arms crossed like a sentry. His eyes are haunted, every time he closes them, he sees you bleeding out on that floor.

You reach for his hand. “Thank you, Matt. For being my big brother. For being my protector.”

He smirks, eyes wet. “Hey, it’s my job. I take it seriously.

As the beeping of the monitors settles into a steady rhythm, you let your eyes flutter shut, surrounded by the people who love you most. With Jay’s protective hand in yours and Matt’s fierce loyalty shining through, you know that no matter what comes next, you’ll never face it alone.

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - eight

summary: Maisy and Pedro deal with the aftermath of their kiss

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: twelve-year age gap, yearning, internal conflicts

wc: 1.6k

series masterlist here

Pedro

“Is there a particular reason your’re here this early?” Rick asks.

I hadn’t even noticed he’d come in. All I keep thinking about is how bad I fucked up by kissing Maisy last night.

We managed to avoid each other this morning, which probably had a lot to do with my leaving at six in the morning. Not a chance in hell I was going to try for small talk. I worked out for three hours at the gym, sweating and pushing myself to the limit.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I shrug and turn my focus back to the sandbag.

At home the same day, Maisy tries for small talk.

“How was training?” She asks in a small voice, trying to gauge the mood between us.

She isn’t the only one who can’t tell where we stand now. I don’t want to ruin our developing friendship because I can’t control myself.

She’s drying her hands on a dish towel, averting her eyes as she stands in my kitchen, all pretty in a tank top and denim shorts that display her thick thighs.

She doesn’t grant me eye contact and that alone cracks my heart into two.

She is hurt.

And so am I.

My session went disastrously. And it's all because I couldn't stop thinking of what might have happened if I knocked on her bedroom door last night instead of wallowing in self-pity.

I’m sure in hindsight I’ll think I did the right thing by not barging in on her and crushing my lips down hers. I did the responsible thing and went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower and I took care of myself.

“It was fine,” I lie.

Maisy

Pedro and I pass the next week without so much as any meaningful interaction. We avoid one another like the other has a contagious disease. We’re back in the territory of polite nods, separate dinners, and conversation only concerning Oliver.

Neither of us broaches the kiss, and it’s like he hasn’t even had a single thought about it since.

I, on the contrary, replay it religiously in my mind before falling asleep. Even the mere sight of his perfectly plush and pink lips plunges me back wholesale into the memory of our kiss.

I am completely smitten by him and we’ve only shared a kiss. It’s actually pathetic.

“Maisy, can you hurry up a bit? I’m running late,” he calls upstairs.

“Be there in a second,” I shout, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

I overslept. Groggily rising from bed, I slip on a sweater and stagger sleepily down the stairs. I straighten the sweater and pull my hair from the neckline, letting it drape my shoulders.

Pedro is on his way out the door when I get downstairs, aggressively chewing a piece of gum, and his keys, phone, and water bottle are all clutched in one—very pornographic—hand.

“Sorry, I slept through my alarm,” I say.

Oliver is sitting on his diapered bum by his dad's feet, gnawing on his knuckle.

“It’s fine. But I really gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I have it from here.” I hoist the little boy up as he reaches for me, and place him on my hip. “Hey, Buddy,” I coo, tickling his side. He shrieks in delight. A smile warms my face.

Pedro stands there in the foyer, unmoving, watching our interactions.

“You said you were running late,” I point out, flustered under his diligent eyes.

He nods slowly, blinking. “I am. I’ll go now.” And he does, leaving me with a toddler to entertain and my head overflowing with the idea of having him.

Pedro

I lie in my bed, checking my calendar, filling in as I go with match dates, fundraising events I plan on supporting and Oliver’s pediatric check-ups that monitor his development.

As I tinker with my phone’s calendar app, I realize today marks one week since Maisy’s and I’s kiss.

The reminder catapults me head-straight into the memory of her sweet lips coupled between mine.

Her kissing technique betrayed her inexperience. She was putty in my arms, leaving all the work to me—which I wasn’t opposed to, I found it endearing actually.

Despite our kiss being hardly more than a sloppy upper lip peck with a testing lick on my part, it was a divine sensation.

A soft knock on my door pulls me from my jumbled mind. I answer it to find Maisy standing at my door.

“Can you, uhm, come to my room?” she asks, her eyes flitting around me.

“You’re not going to seduce me if that’s your goal here,” I huff, trying to lighten the tension-heavy mood.

“Stop it. There’s a spider. I need you to kill it.” She bounces nervously. “Please? Before it disappears and I have to turn the room upside down.”

I shake my head at her before pulling a few tissues from the box on my nightstand. “Show me to it,” I mumble.

When we get to her room, she stops like there’s an invisible force field, and I almost bump into her back. “Well, where is it?”

She points to the wall on the other side of her bed. It’s a decent-sized spider, I can see why she was distressed.

I haven’t gotten the chance to take in the room she’s moved into almost five weeks ago when I was here last time. I was too busy doting on her to notice how lived-in she’s made the once bland guest bedroom.

She bought some throw pillows and draped a soft-looking blanket over the footboard of the bed. String lights decorate her windowsill. A stack of books with cheesy titles towers on her nightstand. And as I delve deeper into her space, my senses are overwhelmed with the smell of hers in the best possible way. Gardenia and almond.

The brown spider scurries a few inches, making Maisy shriek and bury her face in my chest. I’ve never liked spiders more in my life.

“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” I assure her as I put my hands on her shoulders and delicately move her out of my way. I press the tissues to the wall firmly, ending the siege. “There,” I say and walk the dead spider to the guest bathroom and flush the tissues.

She looks around me to the toilet to make sure it actually went down. A shiver racks her body and squeaks a “Thank you.”

I nod and we both just stand there. Neither one of us makes a move to go, even though it’s late.

“Were you getting ready for bed?”

Even if I shouldn’t I like the glint in her eyes as she peers up at me through her lashes. I have no intention of ending this night if she doesn’t want to, no matter how tired I am. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with being friends. “No.”

“Do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

I try to suppress the giddy smile that’s tugging on the corners of my lips with little success.

Five minutes later and we’ve parked ourselves in front of the TV. She picks out a sappy enemies-to-lovers romcom. I hold back any preconceptions I have about the genre and just watch.  

As she strictly keeps her eyes on the screen, I stare down at her hands, noting the contrast of her milky skin against my own. The size difference is comical—her hand could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

I ache to intertwine our fingers.

With great force, a peculiar feeling rises up in me. I try to squish it down but it nestles into my bowels.

I’m truly fucked if the imagery of our interlaced hands sends me spiralling.  

Casting away my unholy thoughts, I return my focus to the movie.

As the week progresses, it’s easier to be normal. My pining remains intense but we settle into a casual camaraderie that I greatly appreciate. We’re friendly towards one another and can banter with each other.

I stifle any inappropriate urge and behave myself.

We restore our movie night tradition. We’re making our way through romcoms Glen Powell has starred in and my list of cultic action movies.

Most nights, when we have the time and mental energy, I cook Chilean food while she pretends to be my sus chef.

Every time she looks at me, it’s like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, and I do my best to feel content, to be just another person at the edge of her glow.

The more time goes on living in close quarters, the clearer I see Maisy for who she is. She’s a hopeful romantic creature with a tendency towards solitude.

Apart from her college roommate, whom I occasionally catch her texting with, she doesn’t seek social interactions. If we don’t count her horrible date with Tinder Nathan, she hasn’t once gone out since she’s been taking care of Oliver.

In her off time, she chooses activities that are done on your lonesome—browsing bookstores, people-watching on sunny cafe terraces, or contemplating the meaning of life on my couch.

One stormy afternoon she tells me love can be found in commonplace—in how mugs hold tea, in how the flooring receives the landing of our feet. As she shares her musings, I get the urge to praise her, to stroke the back of her head and tell her how special and bright and wonderful her brain is. During our conversation, I feel my liking for her expanding.